


like you were never gone

by keep_swinging



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU (in a way), Angst, But It's Alright Because Stiles and Lydia are Together in the End, But This Is Also Depressing as Hell, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Minor Deaton and Melissa Appearances, Minor Mention of Scott/Malia, Romance, Stiles and Lydia are Adorable in This, Stiles-centric, Super Minor Mentions of Other McCall Pack Members
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2019-01-18 03:42:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12380172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keep_swinging/pseuds/keep_swinging
Summary: You were always coming home, yeah, you were always close, you were never gone.She's alive.(She's not.)





	like you were never gone

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everybody!  
> I just went through and edited/touched-up everything I could, but if anyone spots anything I missed please let me know and I'll fix it ASAP. 
> 
> So just stick with me for the plot, I believe it makes sense in why Stiles is getting these dreams, though it could be a little far-fetched. It's the best I could come up with though and it does link back to how Lydia and Stiles literally tore a hole in space and time to get back to each other and that is cannon and did happen so I'm rolling with it.  
> This idea originally came from a prompt but spiraled into something loosely based on it? It definitely ended up way different and with a Teen Wolf twist.
> 
> Alright, that's all. :)  
> Comments and kudos are super appreciated!  
> Enjoy!  
> [Story Originally Published September 27th, 2017.]

 

 

Ice-cream.

It's all around him, washing over him like a tidal wave. It's sickly sweet in his nostrils and slick on his tongue, and the cone he has in his hand is already melting. He's perched on a chair outside at a lesser known ice-cream parlor a few miles out from Beacon Hills. The weather is actually nice for once, a stark contrast from the typical blistering heat August in Beacon County always brings.

A classic by The Doors is crackling through the parlor's outdated speakers, and everything else is just background noise as Stiles eats his ice-cream cone. There's a pile of napkins as tall as him stacked on the table in front of him and he's making quick work of his mid-day dessert.

It's one small scoop of chocolate sandwiched in by two scoops of vanilla with a generous amount of chocolate syrup sitting on top and slowly dripping down the sides. Stiles grins before bringing the masterpiece to his mouth and taking a huge bite, wincing when the frozen treat hits his teeth but oh man is it worth it.

His enjoyment is cut short however, as a loud chatter of voices to his right causes him to jump and jerk his head in that direction, suddenly on edge. His nerves are frazzled from years of watching for monsters lurking in the shadows, and even though there hasn't been evil in any part of Beacon County since they all started college last year, Stiles still feels like he needs to watch his back and loud noises still startle him when he's not paying attention.

There's no monster at the ice-cream parlor though; it's just a little boy tugging on his father's hand begging for a banana spilt, it's just a family of eight laughing at a joke from their spots at the farthest table, it's just a teenager out with her grandparents so she can treat them to celebration milkshakes.

It's just an ice-cream parlor.

Stiles scrubs at his eyes before exhaling and turning back around, and his heart thumps just a little faster at the sight of Lydia sitting across from him. Her hair is down and cascading down her back, bunching at her shoulders, and she's looking at him with a look full of nothing but love. His heart soars, and his stomach flips in a good way. He's glad he didn't have to wait the full fifteen years. He's glad he's here, right now, getting spontaneous ice-cream with Lydia just because they could.

"You okay?" She hides the concern in her voice well, but Stiles knows her better than he should. She's cradling a napkin-wrapped waffle bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other. The chocolate ice-cream that was dropped in her bowl in a perfect tower before looks like soup now.

"Yeah! Yeah. I'm—I'm great. Amazing actually. We're out in the middle of nowhere feasting on a lunch of ice-cream and life couldn't be better."

Lydia rolls her eyes, "We're not in the middle of nowhere, Stiles."

He takes another bite of his ice-cream, shaking his head. "Nope," he counters, drawing out the word, "this place reminds me of the desert, just with dirt instead of sand. And ice-cream instead of coyotes."

It was true—the ice-cream shop sat by itself across from a gas station off an isolated highway and the only thing that surrounded it was dirt, dirt and more dirt—and maybe a patch of dead grass if you were looking in the right place.

Lydia pops another spoonful of ice-cream in her mouth. "Smartass."

Stiles laughs and devours the rest of his cone in record time, and once he finishes he leans back in his chair and crosses his arms behind his head. He gets lost in looking at his girlfriend as she takes her time finishing her own ice-cream and crunching the waffle bowl resting underneath as her eyes do a sweep of their surroundings.

She's wearing a light blue dress that cuts off at her knees and, of course, short heels. Her skin seems to glimmer in the sunlight, and to Stiles, she's honestly a goddess in disguise. She's gorgeous. "I talked to Malia the other day," Lydia says suddenly, flicking her eyes back over to Stiles.

"Yeah?"

She nods and wipes her hands with a napkin, waffle bowl now gone. "I'm happy she stayed here. She's doing great, and I got way more details about her and Scott than I wanted to." Stiles chuckles—Malia's attitude hadn't changed one bit.

After everything, Malia stayed in Beacon Hills instead of running off to Paris like she had originally planned. Besides, Scott was still in California (albeit a few hundred miles away for college) but Scott was all she needed. He kept her steady, grounded, and she did the same for him. They were good for each other, Stiles would admit that.

"Scott's happy too." Scott and Stiles talked almost every day.

Lydia smiles and pushes back her chair. "Ready to go?"

"Only if you are."

They both stand up and Stiles crosses the small distance between them so he can come up behind her and snake his arms around her waist. She tries to ignore him at first, as she lobs her phone into her purse, but then he presses his face into the side of her neck and warmth shoots through her skin. They stumble a few steps forward, Lydia giggling and Stiles mouthing nonsense against her neck, before she finally turns around in his arms so she can kiss him.

Her fingers find the loops of his jeans and pull him close, and he can't help but groan at the action as the kiss passionately deepens. Their lips disconnect a few moments later, and Stiles rests his forehead against hers, slightly out of breath. Lydia closes her eyes as he mutters a short curse.

"Something wrong?" She asks innocently as she opens her eyes again and Stiles says nothing, just grabs one of her hands and starts towing her towards the jeep.

Roscoe sits patiently in the pebble-filled parking lot a few feet away from them and he drags her towards the vehicle with an abrupt resolve. "Sex in the jeep?" She questions in a knowing voice, unable to hold back the smile or stop the newfound anticipation bubbling in her gut.

"Sex in the jeep." He confirms as he hops in the driver's seat and starts the engine.

He drives them to a clearing that is somewhat close by, a stunning cliff that overlooks the jagged platform of this certain part of Beacon County below, and then he's whispering  _I love you_  and she's clutching at his back—

**4:26 AM**  
Sheriff Stiles Stilinski jolts awake suddenly, landing with a loud bang on the floor as he falls out of his desk chair. He's able to catch himself before his face hits the ground, but the rest of him smacks the floor painfully. He curses loudly before picking himself back up and looking around.

He's in his home, and all is quiet—except for the loud pitter-patter of heavy paws as Martin clambers into the room, eyes and ears alert as he looks for his owner. He barrels over with remarkable speed once he sees Stiles is sitting on the floor.

The German Shepard licks Stiles' knee and butts his leg with his nose to make sure he's okay, and Stiles responds by patting the dog's back.

"I'm okay boy," he whispers as he slowly stands up and takes another surveying look around the room, frowning when he doesn't see that bright head of hair anywhere, "I was . . . I was just having," he pauses again, counting all his fingers and all of his toes, bewildered, "a dream?"

Martin whines, batting a paw at him.

Stiles scratches behind his ears and blinks a few times. What he just went through, that didn't feel like a dream. That felt  _real_. "Sorry for scaring you bud," he murmurs as he glances at his desk.

It's a mess. There's stacks of papers covering the entire surface and pens spewed about, and his pistol rests on top of an official looking file in the corner. Stiles reaches for it without thinking and tucks it in the waistband of his sweatpants. Martin's ears go up again when he sees his owner grab his firearm. The pistol's freezing against the bare skin of his stomach but he disregards the feeling as he heads towards the bathroom, Martin at his side.

He flicks on the light and turns on the faucet, splashing some water in his he looks up at the crooked mirror above the sink, an exhausted man looks back at him.

His hair is in need of a trim and stubble darkens his jaw. His muscular skin is ghostly pale in the neon light of the bathroom, and the butt of his pistol is sticking out near his bellybutton. His grey sweatpants are low on his hips, showing the waistband of his boxers, and Martin's black and brown head is beside him, ever the loyal companion.

He's only twenty-four and feels like he's fifty.

"God," he mumbles as he drags a hand down his face and Martin agrees with a low grumble. Stiles scoffs at the animal, "Please. Like you're anything special to look at." Martin growls and stalks off down the hallway, leaving Stiles alone.

The longer he stares at himself, the more he sees someone different. He sees a girl with long strawberry-blonde hair laughing joyously, without a care in the world. He sees himself, six years younger, lounging on a couch stuffing buttery popcorn in his mouth with one hand and holding the girl's hand with the other.

He sees Star Wars marathons in Scott's bedroom; Scott relaxing across the pillows propped on an elbow, Malia next to him stealing glances when he's not looking, the two sharing chaste kisses when Scott catches her in the act, while Stiles is sprawled alongside the bottom half of the bed with his arms curled around Lydia, who is laying flush against his chest with her fingers stroking absentminded lines across his forearms, and they don't need any kisses because their actions are saying enough.

The dream doesn't fit into any of Stiles' memories though, because he utterly  _hates_ Star Wars and Scott's never seen any of the films. Neither would be caught dead with a Star Wars movie in their hand.

"Who are you?" Stiles whispers to the mirror, reaching a hand up and touching it to the glass. He swears he sees his reflection ripple and feels freezing fingers press against his warm palm.

* * *

Scott McCall visits Stiles at work the next day.

He comes baring gifts, and in this instance his gift is food, as he dodges grumpy officers and snarling criminals yanking against their handcuffs. Jordan Parrish, one of the nicer deputies, offers Scott a kind smile as he slips past his organized desk and into Stiles' office.

The werewolf closes the door behind him with a click and breathes a sigh of relief. Stiles whips around at the sound, but his body language instantly eases once he sees that it's no other than Scott.

"Hey Sheriff," Scott greets teasingly as he sets the greasy bag down on the cluttered desk, "brought you lunch." Stiles grins and takes a seat in his chair, abandoning his work at the bulletin board behind him.

"You're a lifesaver man, I swear."

He chuckles as he leans against the desk, careful not to crumple or accidentally disturb any of the papers covering the surface. Stiles is particular about his papers—which consist of mostly research, files and notes—because though it may look messy to everyone else in the world, he claims it's his way of keeping things organized. If one paper gets moved without Stiles knowing, he loses it. Scott's known him basically forever and for the life of him he can't even figure out Stiles' secret to it all. He knows exactly where everything is, even with it looking like tornado alley.

"Anything new on the case front?" He asks, scanning the desk.

Stiles digs into the bag, pulling out a wrapped burger and looking at it questioningly for a moment. "No pickles right?"

"Stiles," Scott says, exasperated, "I'm your best friend. Do you really think I'd let them put pickles on your burger?" Stiles shakes his head, burger already unwrapped and missing a huge bite-sized chunk out of the side.

"Of course not. I was just making sure; pickles are one of mankind's worst ideas ever." Scott doesn't reply, too busy speed-reading some of the opened files on his friend's desk. Stiles brings up Scott's previous question a few minutes later around a mouthful of chewy meat and crispy fries, obviously only just then remembering to answer.

"Oh and no not really. There's that murdering werewolf thing from last week that we're covering up the best we can, a hit and run case that's actually pretty gruesome—I can't wait to nail that bastard to the wall—and a homicide in the suburbs that I'm looking into but that's mostly it. Dare I say it, but things have been pretty quiet around here." He takes a long swig from his soda, "For once."

Scott nods but also picks up on the slight stutter of Stiles' heartbeat. "We're close to finding that omega, maybe only a few more days. Liam and Mason have been a huge help."

"Good. Because not everyone's believing that it was a wild animal attack anymore. We've seriously got to come up with something better for cover-ups."

"How are you doing?" Stiles pauses mid-movement for a french fry.

"I'm fine. I'm uh—having a bit of trouble with sleeping, but you know that always happens when something bad hits my desk, but besides that I've been good." Scotts takes the information in and files it away for later. His best friend isn't telling him something, he knows it.

"Nothing's wrong or anything right? You're not in danger or something?" Scott wishes the words would've come out smoother but oh well. Stiles shrugs, finishing off his burger. A lone crumb finds it's way onto a file marked urgent with a large red stamp and he immediately notices and brushes it off. Scott watches him carefully, but nonchalantly.

"Danger?" He laughs, "I'm the goddamn Sheriff; I'm always in danger. But I've got you for protection so I think my chances on living for a few more years are pretty good. If you fail somehow I've got the rest of the Pack anyway so—"

"Stiles." Scott says softly, cutting off his friend's rambling.

Stiles tosses another fry in his mouth. Chews. Swallows. Takes a long drink.

Then he wrings his hands and straightens the golden badge on his chest. "I'm fine."

Scott tries a final time before letting the topic slip completely. "You sure? Nothing's wrong?" Stiles exhales and stands up, turning towards the board behind him.

"Nothing's wrong. I'm okay." He pivots back towards Scott, "Help me figure this out?"

Scott pushes himself off the desk, "Yeah." Stiles' heartbeat stutters again, and Scott lifts a hand to his friend's shoulder. His heartbeat evens out after that.

* * *

This time things are different.

He's in a hallway, which looks strangely like a school hallway, and walking aimlessly. The hallway stretches on and on, seemingly endless, but something is pulling him forwards—something is keeping him walking. The more he walks the more the place seems to fill out, and soon he realizes it's not a school hallway but a mall stretch and it looks like it's empty excluding the few stray people carrying different types of shopping bags around them. But then Lydia's voice reaches him and it's like everything falls into place.

"I cannot believe I forgot to wear heels."

"And why is that a bad thing? Last time I checked you look beautiful in anything."

"I'm so  _stupid_ —"

"Lydia."

She stops walking and turns around to face him and geez he absolutely  _towers_  above her. He knows she's short and he's tall, but he didn't realize how much those heels helped until now. Her face screws into something that's a cross between stubborn anger and fierce determination. The thoughts flying through his mind must be showing on his face because without any warning she's shoving him in the chest and turning away before he can even form words.

"That's why."

It takes a minute for his feet to catch up with his brain but when they do he's sputtering and moving towards her. "W-Wait, Lydia. Lydia!" An older woman passing by gives him a sour look at his impulsive shouting but Stiles ignores her and the rat's nest on her head.

In three strides he's in front of Lydia, halting her movement. His hands are gesturing wildly as he struggles to get out the words. "Why, why, why does it matter—why do heels matter? Okay I love you just the way you are, and that includes your sh—"

She shoots him a glare and he remembers that mental note he made years ago. Never point out a girl's, let alone Lydia's, shortness in height.

"—shit. I was totally,  _totally_  going to say shit."

_Dumbass._

He attempts to fix it, but he's only able to stammer about a sentence before she cuts his jumbled reasoning off. "I just . . . I hate not being able to reach you, okay? I wear heels whenever we go places because if I can't reach you, I just don't feel safe. I feel exposed—I don't know. It wasn't an issue until recently. It's stupid and your fault because before you it was never a thing but now not being able to reach you or being able to kiss you whenever I want to—"

Ironically he stops her rambling with a kiss. He has to bend down a bit so she can reach him but it gives her the inches she so desperately needs so she can wrap her arms around his neck and that's enough for her. It's deep, and she deepens it even more because she always finds herself doing so whenever they kiss in private—she can't help it, Stiles is just addicting, like a drug she can't shake—and his hands anchor themselves on her hips.

He pulls back before things get too heated too fast—she's a drug addict and the drug stops her from going too far, hilarious—and there's a soft look in his auburn eyes. Her face is flushed, and her body is full of zeal from the touch of his fingers secretly slipping under her shirt to caress the bare skin of her waist.

"It's not stupid," he whispers, before pulling her to him. His hands disappear from her waist and one ends up in her hair as he hugs her close. They stay like that for a while, Lydia sheltered by him, Stiles drowning in her, until she breaks it by disrupting the silence.

"I love you."

He kisses the top of her head. "I love you too."

**1:07 AM**  
He wakes up in a cold sweat and has to stumble from his bedroom to the bathroom to make sure he's not dreaming anymore. It feels so goddamn real and it's screwing with him so badly—these emotions that come with these dreams are so stifling and feel so real that he feels like he can't tell what's real and what's not.

Martin scampers into the bathroom after him, and watches his owner cautiously.

"What the fuck?" Stiles yells to no one in particular, pulling at his hair. He hovers above the sink, arms braced on either side, and can't catch his breath worth a damn. Martin whines worriedly and jumps up to the counter to prod Stiles' arm.

He ignores him and instead heads back to his room, gripping the walls to steady himself along the way, and grabs his cellphone from the nightstand with shaking hands. His breathing gets heavier and heavier as he types and  _fuck_  it feels like he can't breathe  _why_  can't he breathe?

_[To: Scotty Boy] hhelp_

Scott's response is almost instantaneous.

_[From: Scotty Boy] coming_

Stiles drops his phone back on the nightstand before his knees hit the ground and he cries out, starting to really freak out. What is happening to him? Black spots are swimming in his vision, and his hearing is starting to go muffled and Martin's clawing at the back of his shirt, unsure of what's going on but knowing that his owner is in serious distress.

"M-Mar-rtin I'm—I'm o-okay just—"

He can't even finish his sentence because his breathing has gone from heavy to shallow now and he's not getting enough air. His eyes start to close and he loses what little bit of strength he has left and collapses to the floor.

All he can think is  _this is the end_ , but before the end comes hands are on his body and someone's saying something but Stiles  _can't hear_  he can't hear what they're saying because it's like he's buried deep underwater. The voice is persistent though, and it's a garbled drone in Stiles' ears until he can finally hear what they're actually saying.

"Stiles! Stiles you need to calm down! Come on buddy you gotta calm down for me. Please Stiles, please." Scott. The voice is Scott's. Scott's here. He's gonna be okay. He'll be okay. Stiles wheezes and opens his eyes so he can see Scott's face. It's warped with panic, worry and just about everything in-between.

"Stiles. Hey Stiles, come on. Breathe with me. In and out. With me now, c'mon."

Stiles does his best to follow Scott's directions but it's hard, borderline impossible. Scott's got ahold of him and his hands keep moving from his shoulders to his chest, arms, any limb he can reach to try and keep his attention. He knows Stiles is staring at him and desperately trying to listen so Scott keeps talking, not faltering once.

"In and out, follow me dude, in and out, in and out." He guides one of Stiles' hands to his chest so he can match Scott's strong breathing and eventually, it works. It takes about ten more minutes of coaxing and coaching, but by twenty Stiles is breathing normally again and sitting up.

He and Scott are both leaning against the frame of the bed, shoulders touching, as Stiles fumbles with his fingers. Martin is sitting next to Scott and he pets him distractedly as they both try to come to terms with what had just happened.

After a few more minutes of just sitting there, Stiles breaks the silence that swamps them. "Okay," he starts quietly, "I wasn't completely honest with you that day in the office. Something is wrong." Scott doesn't say anything.

Stiles exhales and continues, "I'm having these—these dreams that aren't . . . normal. I don't know what they are or why they're happening to me now of all times, but it just started happening last week. It woke me up then too, but this time I woke up and I just couldn't fucking breathe. I was suffocating or some shit, I don't know—"

"You were having a panic attack." Stiles stills. Martin hits the floor with a loud thump as he rolls over onto his back so Scott can scratch his belly.

"Panic attack?" He whispers in query, looking over at his friend.

Scott shakes his head, "Your heartbeat was through the roof. I could hear it from outside." He pauses, mulling the thought over in his mind, "You had all the symptoms of one."

Disbelief colors his face, "I've never had a panic attack before."

"Well," Scott mumbles, "I think that was just your first." Martin snorts at the lack of attention he's receiving from Scott and waddles over to his dog bed in the corner of the room. "So," Scott appeals, "these dreams, um, how are they not normal?" It's not that he doesn't believe Stiles, he just doesn't understand. Aren't dreams just not supposed to make sense sometimes?

"They—They feel like memories. They feel like my memories from different times in my life. But, but the things I'm seeing, they've—Scotty they've never happened. I've never done any of the things that have happened in the dreams. When they happen, at first I'm confused or by myself, but then the dream will sorta get in order and once that happens it's like I'm reciting from a script. I'm saying things I don't remember ever saying but they're just coming out and it all feels so right."

He sniffs, "There's always—she's always there. This girl—when the dream clears itself up, she's always there. Lydia. Her name's Lydia, and I love her. I love her so incredibly much in these dreams, the kind of love where it would hurt to  _not_  be near her, and she's just always there. She's like—the center of the dream."

Scott nods and again knows that something else is dangling on the edge of his friend's tongue that he has yet to spit out. "What exactly are you saying, Stiles?"

"I'm saying—I-I think these dreams have happened. To me. To us. But . . . in a different life."

Scott believes him. He stays the night, but while he's on the downstairs couch snoring, Stiles is in his room staring up at the ceiling and wondering why this girl—this beautiful girl named Lydia—isn't with him in this lifetime.

* * *

Alan Deaton's grand advice is that Stiles could, possibility, be right.

"Wait what?" Stiles says in response, gaze skimming from Scott to Deaton, "I'm—I could be right?"

"It could be a past life, or another life that's happened, or is going on at this same time. So yes, you could be right." Scott shifts his weight from one foot to the other as Stiles drums his fingers on the metal table they're gathered around.

They had to wait four days for Deaton to return from his business trip to Europe, but as soon as Scott called and said he had returned to the animal clinic, Stiles had driven over as fast as the speed limits would allow. Scott worked full-time at the animal clinic with Deaton, so he was in charge of running it while he was gone, and also had enough time to fill him in while Stiles was on his way.

He had also been sleeping over Stiles' house for the past few nights to keep an eye on his friend, but no other dreams had occurred. Yet. "Now I believe there could be multiple universes, or this could be a past life, but what I can't figure out is why this is happening to you, specifically. You're human."

Stiles half-smiles, "I do have one hell of a shot though, which is pretty damn good for not having any cheating werewolf powers or anything, y'know," Scott rolls his eyes, knowing exactly what Stiles is alluding to.

"It was one time and I split the prize money with you anyway."

"Dude. You still cheated me out of first place!" Deaton raises a hand and the two men stop their bickering, but not before Stiles mutters one last, "Werewolf cheater," under his breath, knowing full well that Scott can hear him.

"I meant," Deaton clarifies, "that since you are wholly and purely human, something this supernatural shouldn't be happening to you. I could understand this happening to a banshee, or even a hellhound for that matter, but hearing this happen to a human? That's extremely odd."

Stiles tilts his head, fingers still drumming against the table, "So you do know what's happening to me?"

"I have an idea of what it all could mean. I think someone is trying to reach out to you, on purpose or accidentally, and they're plugging in memories that are in fact real but that a different you has experienced. I don't know why they're reaching out to you, or if it's something else entirely, but they at least have to be a banshee to be able to even portray such things so that they feel as though they're real. They also have to have a strong connection to you, a tether if you will—"

"There's always a woman in my dreams. A girl. Lydia. The dreams are about her and—and I feel like I love her. I know I love her."

"That would be the tether. You, the other you, obviously has a strong connection with this girl and that's why you feel the same way. You're you."

Scott feels like a kid left out of the circle. "I'm sorry but I don't understand any of this. So this Lydia girl from a different world, a different life, is sending our Stiles memories through time and space?"

Stiles stops tapping his fingers, "Basically?"

They both look to Deaton for confirmation.

"Basically." He says, "But you need to remember, she could be doing it unknowingly. If she's a banshee and this is completely on accident, it just could be happening because of the tether. If Lydia and you share this strong of a tether over there, and who knows where else, then yes this girl is sending you memories through time and space."

"So don't dream cheat on her because she just might be able to shatter your skull with her scream through time and space also," Scott jokes, which makes Stiles actually laugh.

"Good thing I haven't had a girlfriend in like, two years." He quips and Deaton sighs, though there is a curve of a smile present on his lips.

"Anyway," he states, sobering up, "I personally think this banshee doesn't realize what she's doing. There doesn't seem to be an ulterior motive to these dreams like needing to do something to save the world or stop something evil, so these dreams are harmless."

Stiles shoots the older man a glare, "Tell that to my panic attack."

"That is natural human reaction to something you're not prepared for. It happened after your second dream, and it only happened because it overwhelmed you. The first dream your brain brushed off, but then it happened again and you didn't know what to do because it was really happening. It shouldn't happen again."

Scott runs a hand through his hair, "So how do we fix it? Is there a way to stop it?"

Deaton stares at the metal table for a long moment. Stiles is jittery and his hands play with anything they can reach, which just so happens to be a random string at the hem of his tee-shirt. Scott wonders just how much he can help Stiles before the dreams drive him crazy. He hopes they don't drive him over the edge; he has Lydia in another life, but there's no sign of her in this one and that concerns him.

When Deaton looks up again, there's a slight frown on his face. "You have to let the dreams in. Things will only go back to normal once you reach the end, which is whatever the dreams are trying to tell you. Let it be to find this girl or to do a certain thing, or to give a message. Only then will they stop." His frown deepens, "But I only warn you to be careful—"

"Being Careful is my middle name," Stiles replies with a small smile, cutting Deaton off before he can finish.

Scott hopes he's right.

* * *

"And your dad—"

"—is out of town."

Stiles kicks the door shut behind him with his foot, kissing her fiercely. She kisses back with the same intensity and before long he's picking her up by the hips and her legs are wrapping tightly around his waist. He tries to be all macho and carry her upstairs to his room, but about halfway up he misses a step and things go downhill fast.

He blames it on the fact that kissing Lydia while trying to do something as simple as walking is not a good combination because it's just her. It's  _freaking_  Lydia. Freaking Lydia who makes his stomach always fill with something that could be butterflies when she kisses him. Freaking Lydia who just makes his mind go blank because she's finally his and he's free to touch her whenever he fucking wants. Freaking Lydia who makes his skin burn in the best way. Because it's freaking Lydia, and Stiles finds it hard to function around her.

Stiles starts to fall forwards fast, and he only has about half-a-second to think  _protect her_  before flipping her around so he lands first. His plan works a little too well however, as he's somehow able to maneuver Lydia so that she lands on top of him.

She lets out a small shriek of shock as they go down and Stiles groans loudly when his whole backside unpleasantly collides against the sharp slopes of the stairway. Lydia realizes what had happened quickly enough and scrambles off her boyfriend fast, helping him sit up as gently as she can. "Fuck," he hisses as he moves his back, and Lydia squeezes his hand.

"God, Stiles, are you okay?"

He shakes his head, "I'm gonna say no." She reaches out to grab his other hand.

"Come on, let's get you to the couch."

"No," he whispers, wincing, "we're already halfway up just, let's get to the bed."

Lydia obeys and with a lot of pain on Stiles' part and assistance from Lydia, they make it to his bedroom in one piece. He falls on top of the mattress as gingerly as possible and kicks off his shoes as he lays his head back against the pillow and closes his eyes. "I think I blew out my back." Lydia takes off her shoes and climbs into bed next to him, lying on her back.

"I know what you did. You should've just let me take the fall."

He scoffs softly, "Never."

Lydia's silent for a moment. "You wouldn't be hurt right now." He opens his eyes at the same time Lydia rolls onto her belly so she can rest her chin lightly on his stomach. He reaches a hand over to brush some of her unruly hair out of her face.

"I rather be hurt than you. Gotta keep you safe," he mumbles, hand slipping down to cup her cheek, "you're quite the clumsy person."

"Says the person who tripped  _going up_  the stairs."

He chuckles and Lydia smiles. "I'm sorry for ruining our moment."

She locks eyes with him, "Don't apologize. It wasn't your fault. Next time let's just stick to downstairs. Could've gotten there quicker anyway." She bats his hand away from her face so she can bring it to her lips to kiss it, and then she's closing her eyes and wrapping her arms haphazardly around his lower torso.

"I love you," he says and she smiles as she closes her eyes and they both fall asleep that way.

**5:49 AM**  
He opens his eyes a minute before his alarm is supposed to go off and he reaches over to his phone and turns it off before it can. He has no time to loiter in bed and think about his newest dream, so instead he thinks about it as he gets ready for work. His shift starts at six sharp, but his house is less than four minutes from the police station so the ten minutes he gives himself in the morning to get ready is all he ever needs.

He gets dressed, snaps on his badge and holsters his pistol. Then he fills Martin's food and water bowls before grabbing the keys to his baby blue jeep and heading out the door. He drives to the station in silence, not even bothering with turning on the morning radio so he knows the weather for later.

Stiles' father died when he was eighteen and he lost his mother young.

He doesn't have any other family, sane family at least, so he got the deed to the house and everything inside. He remembers the day his dad died too clearly, even now, and wonders why he still eats the fattening meals Scott brings him sometimes. It scared him straight in a way, his father—the old Sheriff—dying from a heart attack. After the grieving, Stiles started to work out more than usual and stuck to only minimum proteins and salads. He doesn't know if it was the best decision of his life or the worst one.

He got Martin as a gift from one of his father's friends, and he was nothing but a dorky puppy at the time so he and Stiles bonded straightaway. Stiles trained him as a police dog for a while and even took the dog with him on a few chases and busts, but after a few close calls Stiles got paranoid he was going to lose his only housemate so Martin's been stationed at home since.

As he pulls into his parking spot at work, he pats the jeep's hood before heading inside. The dream doesn't leave him for the rest of the day, and neither does the phantom pain in his back.

* * *

"I don't know why this girl is with me in these dreams."

Scott looks up from the file he's perusing, eyebrows scrunching together in confusion. "What do you mean? Who wouldn't want you?" There's thick sarcasm covering the second part, but honestly there too. Stiles is as good as a guy there could be.

"She deserves so much better." Stiles says seriously, quietly, "She deserves the world and more."

Scott closes the file, taking notice of the way his best friend is dodging his stare.

"Stiles." He says, and Stiles finally brings his eyes to Scott's. "She deserves you."

* * *

He's twenty-one and Lydia's bleeding out in his arms.

They're outside a nightclub with music blasting so loud it's vibrating the whole street, and it was definitely loud enough to hide the sound of a gun going off and Lydia's scream. She had wandered off a few minutes prior, squeezing his shoulder and saying she was going to get some air, and he had kissed her in response before she had disappeared into the throng of sweaty bodies.

Stiles had only just started traveling through the club's maze of hallways trying to find the exit when he heard the gunshot. He had frozen, like as though time itself had stopped, but when he heard the scream, her scream, his feet had propelled forwards.

Slamming through the door with panicked adrenaline pulsing through his veins, he only needed to see the sight of her body crumpled on the curb before running to her side. From there he cocooned her in his arms and to his relief found a heartbeat and then Scott and Malia came flying out from inside the building.

Which brought Stiles to now: Scott staying on the line with nine-one-one with a quivering hand and Malia pacing next to where Stiles was holding tight onto Lydia. "They'll be here soon," Scott calls, and Stiles allows the tiniest of smiles to grace his face. He brushes a hand across her cheek and her half-lidded eyes blearily lock with his.

"Hey, hear that? They'll be here soon. Stay with me, okay? Stay with me." She nods, just barely, and Stiles holds her closer to his chest. Blood's soaking through his flannel, and the smell is sickening. God, he hates blood. His hands are covered too, stained red from trying to apply pressure to the wound in her chest, and he's not sure the color will ever wash off.

"Lydia," he says when her eyes begin to drift shut, "no, no, no, no stay with me. Lydia!" The shout startles her and he flinches but her eyes open again so he knows it was worth it. He frames her face and even leans down to kiss her, a quick brush of his lips against hers, before pulling back again. "Come on honey, stay with me. Stay with me now, c'mon. I love you. I love you. You can't leave me yet right?"

Her lips twitch and he laughs wryly, "I'd go out of my freaking mind without you," he echoes, and this time her mouth opens.

"I-I . . . it . . . it h—hurts, S-Stiles," she whispers, and his heart breaks into a million pieces right then and there.

"I-I know it does, honey, I know. They're almost here alright? They're almost here. Promise." Scott appears at his side and Stiles looks at him with tears in his eyes. His eyes say it all. He's not going to lose her right? He can't lose her. He can't lose her.

Wordlessly, Scott takes Lydia's hand and closes his eyes as he takes her pain, and a tear slips down Stiles' cheek. "You're okay," he mumbles once Scott gasps and pulls his hand away, Malia beside him as he growls at the agony now surging through him instead of her, and Lydia keeps eye contact with Stiles.

"T-That's better," she murmurs, as her eyes close again and Stiles is shaking her and desperately trying to get her attention and to get her to stay awake as long as he can until he's—just not anymore.

The paramedics arrive and shove him out of the way, and the rest happens in flashes. The ambulance hustles her away and Scott follows in the jeep with Stiles while Malia stays behind to try and pick up the scent of the shooter. Then Stiles is pushing his way through the hospital doors and is only able to catch a glimpse of her with an oxygen mask over her face before he's stopped by Melissa in front of him and Scott grabbing at his shirt behind him.

"L-Lydia," he says, eyes fixated on the doors they had just pushed her gurney through, "Lydia. Lydia!"

"Stiles—" Melissa tries, but he doesn't hear her, he doesn't hear any of them. He just hears the gunshot and her scream and the scream means she's going to die that's what banshees _do_ , they scream when someone dies and she screamed after she got  _shot_  so she's going to die and oh God she can't die, she can't die, she  _can't_ —

"LYDIA!"

**2:00 AM**  
Stiles wakes up screaming her name, heart hammering wildly. Martin jumps from his spot next to him on the bed and barks in his general direction but Stiles is already pulling on pants and snatching his car keys from the counter in the kitchen.

He drives to Beacon Hills Hospital trembling so much he crosses the double-lines by accident a few times, but there's no cars around and his knuckles are pulled taunt and white as they hold tight onto the steering wheel. When he gets to the hospital he pulls into a handicapped parking spot illegally and is hardly able to jerk the keys out of the ignition before running inside.

Melissa McCall sees him from her seat behind the front desk and is running after him before she even knows what she's doing as he passes right through the emergency room doors.

She catches him by the shoulder and spins him around before he can get any farther and when she questions what's wrong all Stiles can say is that she was there. "Who?" Melissa prompts, keeping a firm grasp on his arm so he can't get away from her.

"Lydia. She was here. She was here."

He rips his arm out of her grip and goes from empty room to empty room and no words Melissa says stops him. She's glad there had been no one in so far that night, because the guy was breaking about five-hundred hospital rules as it was, and him intruding on someone wouldn't be a good thing either.

Stiles' hunt finally comes to an end when he reaches the end of the hall, stopping at an ajar door labeled room three-one-one. "Stiles?" Scott's mom inquiries anxiously as he stands outside the door, eyes sealed in an unwavering stare inside.

He walks into the room and pulls the plastic chair inside next to the hospital bed before sitting down and staring at the bare sheets, as if they'll give him the answer. Melissa stays outside and calls her son whilst keeping an eye on the broken man sitting inside the barren room and by the time Scott gets there all Stiles says is, "She's  _here_."

Scott sits with Stiles until the clock hits four, and then he takes him home and calls Parrish around five to inform him that the Sheriff won't be in for the day.

Stiles doesn't dream of Lydia for two weeks.

* * *

She's alive.

He's sitting beside her hospital bed, head resting over her legs as she dozes but then she stirs. "Stiles?" She says hoarsely from above him and his eyes instantly open as he lifts his head and looks over. Sure enough she's awake and looking at him like he's the sun she rotates around.

"Lydia," he breathes before standing up so he can hug her, tremendously vigilant to avoid jostling her stiches, and kiss her. She smiles sleepily and he smiles back. "Water?" He asks her, and she nods. He disappears from the room for a few moments, and Lydia finds herself missing him more than she should, but that feeling leaves once he returns with a paper cup filled to the brim with ice-cold water and a blue straw.

Stiles brings the drink to her lips and she drinks greedily, but he pulls it away before she can down the whole thing in one sitting. "Sorry," he mutters sheepishly, "but you gotta take it easy." He sits back down in his chair and mutes the show he was watching before turning his attention back to her. "How do you feel?"

"Like shit." She deadpans and he smirks, bemused at hearing her curse.

"You kiss your mother with that mouth?"

She rolls her eyes and sighs, but inside she's missed their constant banter like crazy. She's missed him. "Only you." He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and she can't help but chortle and before long they're talking and flirting like she didn't just get shot and predict her own death—which she also evaded.

"Hey," she interrupts after he says the punchline to a pretty racy joke, "come here."

Stiles grins and slides into bed next to her, throwing an arm around her body. She nestles into his side and rests her head against his chest, and he presses a kiss to her neck while she focuses on the re-run playing on the television. "You scared me," he admits, "you scared me to death." He trails a few more kisses down the skin of her neck.

"I know," she laments, blinking a few times to try and stop the sudden stinging feeling in her eyes, "but it's okay. I'm okay."

"Yeah. Yeah, you're okay," he repeats dumbly, as if to reassure himself. He leaves a kiss on the crown of her head as she sniffles and closes her eyes, a few tears falling. "I love you Stiles Stilinski," she murmurs, and he feels his own tears arise and a lump form in his throat because yeah they almost lost each other. She almost died.

The bullet almost grazed her fucking heart.

"I love you too Lydia—"

**3:31 AM**  
"—Martin." He blinks dazedly as he's awoken by the sound of his own voice, and his eyes widen when he comprehends what he had just said. "Lydia Martin! That's her last name!" Martin wags his tail, believing his owner is praising him from the elated tone of his voice, but snorts when Stiles instead grabs his phone and jabs the number one with his finger for Scott's speed-dial.

The line rings twice before Scott picks up. "Hello?" He answers groggily, yawning.

"Scott!" Stiles all but yells into the phone and Scott grimaces and holds the phone away from his ear, "Scott her last name is Martin! Lydia Martin!"

Scott yawns again, "Martin as in Martin your German Shepard?"

"Martin as in Martin is the dream-girl's last name. Now we can try to find her."

Scott doesn't answer for so long Stiles thinks maybe he's fallen asleep. "Stiles," he finally offers, "you want to find her?" Stiles pushes the quilt off him, staring at his stripe-patterned pajama pants.

"Yeah. Of course I want to find her. I-I—I love her Scott. I love her and I need to find her."

"Dude," Scott says, "I don't—I don't think that's such a good idea." Stiles shakes his head but then recalls that Scott can't see him.

"I'm finding her, Scotty. I'm gonna find her. I have to."

The next morning Stiles spends at the computer in his office at the police station. There's no records of any woman named Lydia Martin in the system, but his hope doesn't dwindle. He's going to find her.

He will find her.

* * *

"Have you ever thought about kids?"

Lydia pauses mid-chop of a cucumber and turns around, hand on her hip.

"Kids?"

Stiles sits innocently at the kitchen island, chewing on a green pen cap. This was only their third dinner at their new apartment, and Lydia's baffled  _Stiles_ is even asking about such a thing. He nods, pulling the pen from his mouth. "Yeah. Kids." Lydia turns back to her chopping board, mind a whirlwind. Stiles. Stiles asking about kids. What had the world come to?

"Have you—do you want kids?" He blurts, pen clattering as it hits the table.

Lydia smiles, her heart beating a little faster. She's never put much thought into kids. But kids with Stiles . . . she could do that. Having a baby with him? Having a baby with his goofy smile and hair? That—honestly—didn't sound too bad.

"I don't know," she teases, "kids are a lot of work, and I already have to watch you in stores to make sure you don't put anything into the shopping cart that we don't need." It was true, Stiles and Lydia always fought at the store over the sugary treats he tried to sneak into the cart, and when she caught him she'd hit him anywhere she could reach.

It was a battle that was forever ongoing.

"Everyone needs Fruit Roll-Ups in their apartment, Lydia, and you know it."

"Oh whatever, Stiles."

They lapse into an open-ended silence and he taps his fingers on the island for a few palpable seconds before shattering it. "So you're . . . you're open to it? Kids?" He asks hopefully, and Lydia smiles as she finishes cutting the cucumber and flings the skin into the trashcan.

"I'm open to it," she says calmly, though on the inside she's doing a happy-dance because she's  _agreeing_  to this with the love of her life, and having a kid or two with him wouldn't be so bad. Stiles laughs behind her and she can just feel his smirk.

"We could name him after me," he prattles offhandedly and Lydia physically shudders.

"Oh hell no, Stiles. You want to name the poor kid Mieczyslaw Junior? God help him."

"No!" He defends, "I  _meant_  Stiles Junior. Duh."

Lydia sighs and when she turns Stiles has a thoughtful expression plastered on his handsome face. "What're you thinking over there, Einstein?" She walks towards him and leans across the island to take his hands into hers.

"We could name him Mischief."

"Dully noted," Lydia chimes in and he beams.

"That was my mom's nickname for me. Or we could name him Noah after my dad, or if it's a girl Claudia after my mom, or Natalie after yours. The possibilities are endless." She brings her lips to his in a kiss that's short and sweet. When she pulls back there's an awestruck look on his face, like he's in shock still after all these years that they're together and that she's just agreed to having kids with him.

"I'll explore every possibility," she says, "as long as it's with you."

**6:15 PM**  
Stiles had decided to take a short nap before dinnertime rolled around because he had a rough day at work. It had been raining since he had woken up that morning, which meant he got undeniably drenched, so when he arrived home he jumped in the shower, changed into a comfy sweatshirt and sweatpants, and fell asleep.

He didn't think he'd get another dream-memory after ten weeks of nothing, however.

When he wakes up, it's like all of a sudden he just knows where she is. It's an instinctive feeling in his gut; it's another beat in his heart. He knows where she is. He gets in the jeep and starts driving, rain pounding against the windshield.

Scott's in the middle of deciding if he should buy the blue bag of Doritos or the red bag when his cellphone rings from his pocket. He stuffs the chip bags back on the shelf and grabs his phone, not bothering to glance at the screen because Take the Long Way Home is the one and only ringtone for his mother.

"Hey Mom," Scott says as he examines the rest of the aisle, smiling when a bag of popcorn on sale catches his eye. "Do you need anything from the grocery store? Malia and I were running low on food and she had to stay late at the office so I told her I'd run out and—"

"I found her, Scott." Melissa interjects. Scott shifts the phone to his other hand so he can toss the popcorn bag into his basket.

"Who?"

"Lydia."

It had been a few weeks since Stiles had found out Lydia's last name and the two had been searching for her everywhere with no luck and no leads. Scott had even enlisted his mother's help, along with Chris Argent's, Melissa's not-a-boyfriend-not-a-husband-not-a-anything. (According to her at least—Scott begged to differ.)

"Okay," he says slowly, unsure why his mom sounds so troubled about it. Wasn't finding Lydia a good thing? "So that's good right? Where is she?" His mother waits a moment before responding, and Scott drops the plastic basket at the new information and runs out the double doors to his car.

He needs to find Stiles.

The rain is a loud roar in his ears as he approaches the spot he was drawn to, his heart dropping lower and lower until it feels like it's not even there. He tumbles to his knees and gooey mud cakes his pants like another layer. The rain is soaking through his shirt and droplets are clinging to his messy hair before sliding down his face. He's shaking as he reaches a hand out to touch the cold stone before him and at the same time thunder booms. Lightning cracks across the dark sky, illuminating the gravestone he's kneeling in front of.

He doesn't know how long he stares at the words carved into the stone, but eventually he hears a car door slam and footsteps approach him. "Stiles!" Scott's voice reaches him, but it doesn't at the same time. A hand falls on Stiles' shoulder and then he's brought into a brotherly hug and he faintly hears Scott muttering, "I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry," into his ear but, again, he's deaf to it all.

The only thing he can concentrate on is the grave sitting there mocking him, taunting him indefinitely. He keeps a hand on the grave as Scott keeps a hold of him, as the words written there whittle their way into Stiles' brain.

**In Loving Memory of**  
**Lydia Lorraine Martin**  
**March 15th, 1994—January 1st, 1999**  
**"Nothing gave her so much pleasure as to hear about the world above the sea."**

The dreams led Stiles Stilinski to a grave.

Lydia Martin's grave.

She's not alive.

(She'll always be alive to him.)

* * *

**+1**  
He's twenty-nine when he dies.

A hardened criminal's estranged son guns him and Martin down in his own home late one crisp October night. He's not fast enough to reach his pistol, and Martin's too old, too slow, as he attempts to bite the guy but gets in the crossfire instead. His cellphone falls close enough by so he's able to press Scott's speed-dial but it goes to voicemail because him and Malia are on vacation in Paris and Stiles completely forgot.

He hangs up the call and can only dial the nine and first one before his fingers stop responding and his body rejects any type of effort he tries to make. He's forced to lay there on the hardwood floor, blood pooling around his body, and wait for death.

Martin goes before him.

He's only there for a few minutes. Stiles is okay with that. He's okay to suffer longer in exchange for Martin to not have to. He's been his trusty companion for twelve years, he doesn't deserve to suffer, and he didn't deserve to die. The grim reaper makes Stiles suffer for exactly five more minutes before he releases him.

Black clouds his vison for a while, until it doesn't. When he can see, and move, again he's perfectly fine and Martin's trotting along next to him. He doesn't know where he's at, but when he looks up from Martin, he sees her.

Lydia.

He nearly runs to her and crushes her in a hug, but remembers how she doesn't have any idea who he is and contains himself instead as he coolly approaches her. She looks up when she hears him get close and she looks to be the same age as him and as beautiful as ever, good God. He loves her already. He's been in love with her for years, but he'll never say that part.

Her piercing emerald eyes scan him before she seems to trust him enough to speak. "Hi."

"Hi," he echoes, shell-shocked that she's really in front of him and no, he thinks as he pitches himself, this isn't just another dream. (He hasn't had one since before he found her grave.)

"How did you die? You're too young." He laughs, swiping a hand through his chaotic hair.

"I could say the same about you. You're beautiful, by the way." She smiles, blushing as she shoves a strand of hair behind her ear and Stiles feels his cheeks heat up too. "Oh sorry, sorry that probably sounded super creepy coming from a dead guy who you've literally just met two seconds ago—"

"No," she says softly, interfering, "no it was . . . thank you."

Stiles nods, awkwardly smoothing down his shirt with his hands to keep his fidgeting at bay, "I uh, someone shot me," he answers, "and you're welcome."

She gestures towards herself, "Car accident."

They keep walking forwards until a wooden bench appears up ahead and when they get to it they both take a seat. He supports his elbows on his knees as Lydia twiddles her thumbs in her lap and she must not be able to stand the silence any longer because she essentially blurts her name and his head swivels towards her in reaction. "I'm Lydia." There's an expression on her face he doesn't quite understand, but he knows he'll figure it out. Someday.

She's his eternity.

"Stiles," he says, grinning wide, holding out his hand. She hesitates a moment before shaking it and his heart skips a beat because he found her. He found her. He leans back against the bench and she follows, and he's definitely not expecting her head to fall on his shoulder but he'll take it. He drapes an arm around her to pull her close and she accepts it.

"So . . . what the hell is a Stiles?"

"A nickname," he says, and then chuckles, "but I think you'll come to love it."

* * *

**+2**  
In another timeline, a world where they survived high school and survived college, Lydia and Stiles Stilinski return to Beacon Hills yet again, but this time it's not for Scott, or Alec, or to help assist with the small masses of people still supporting Monroe, but instead because they want to settle down there with their new baby boy who is, in fact, named after Stiles.

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Basically their [Stiles and Lydia's] tether is so strong it's affecting other Stiles' in the many different universes that could possibly exist in this story. Another thing about the whole multiverses thing is that certain things, anything, could be changed. There could be big changes like how Stiles' dad is dead in this one, and that other people didn't die and so on and fourth. People could also have subconscious memories of other things, like a name that means something to them or something, which is how Stiles' dog got named Martin because Martin meant something to him aka Lydia Martin.
> 
> 2\. Lydia died before elementary school started, which is where we can all assume Stiles and her met, so they never got a chance to meet in this timeline.
> 
> 3\. The Teen Wolf Wiki gave me the information that Lydia's birthday is in Mid-March of 1994, but no date, so I just made that part up. I couldn't find any info on if Lydia's real middle name was ever mentioned in the show so I gave her grandmother's name as Lydia's middle name.
> 
> 4\. The quote on Lydia's gravestone is from the Little Mermaid book by Hans Christian Andersen.
> 
> 5\. To summarize: AU-older-Stiles is having dreams about the TV show Stiles' present and future.
> 
> 6\. The +1 bonus scene is about now-dead AU Stiles and Lydia meeting up in the afterlife.
> 
> 7\. The +2 bonus scene is about the future of the TV show Stiles and Lydia.
> 
> 8\. Story originally based off of this prompt until I messed with it: You keep having strange dreams that turn out to be us in a past life and you're determined to find me again but in this life I'm already dead.


End file.
